


Atonement

by cupofdaydream



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Romance, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 15:31:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1784137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupofdaydream/pseuds/cupofdaydream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Zuko lays dying, his mind travels back to Mai. He's kept her waiting long enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Story turns very AU after Zuko's banishment
> 
> This fic has been posted to fanfiction.net as well under my collaboration partner's handle, Kasaihanaa (https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4119208/Kasaihanaa) who is an incredibly talented artist and writer, whom I am so lucky to call my friend. 
> 
> We've split up the chapters which will be labeled with the author at the beginning of each.
> 
> Chapter 1 by cupofdaydream

 

When the third arrow hits, it knocks the air from his lungs, and it knocks him back to his halcyon days, to days spent on Ember Island weaving through the tall grass after his sister, and chasing gulls along the beach. His father puts a hand on his shoulder, and if there hadn’t been a war raging outside their palace gates, if his father had been first born, could their family have been happy? Zuko can’t help but wonder.

And pain is the one to bring him back, he coughs up red into his hands, and his vision blurs, and it takes all he has to stagger forward and keep moving along the wooded road, because he’ll be damned if he dies here. He’s still so far from his destination—from the weather-worn roofing and the gold-painted borders. He’s kept her waiting long enough.

His heartbeat thunders in his ears, drowning out the sound of his rasping breath, and this time, when delirium carries him away, it’s not a warm, light memory that eases his wounds and calms his soul, it’s biting and cold, and yet it still burns like fire. Those years spent on that dreaded ship haunt him, every foul word he ever uttered to his uncle, one of the only people who ever loved him in his short life of little love, reminds him that he is a man of many regrets.

Life has been a series of broken promises, an empty existence filled with remorse and sorrow. To rectify his wrongs that could never be made right, to turn back time, to bring back the dead, his redemption lies in impossible tasks. And no dying man can defy the impossible.

Three arrows in his back. He hears a fourth whizzing nearer, but before it can hit its mark he stumbles, and the arrow whistles past his head.  

It’s a struggle, such a struggle to get up. Zuko closes his eyes. The memories flood.

And when he opens them again, he’s home. He’s home for the first time in six years. He’s twelve, or maybe thirteen, and the palace garden is in full bloom, the flowers—brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows—are fires in blossom form, occupied by tiny humming-bees that totter in flight, drunk on nectar. So vivid, so _real_ , memory quickly becomes reality.

Looking upon the babbling fountain, he recalls that day when they both fell in, or, rather, when he _pushed_ her in and then followed suit—a valiant yet gullible act on his part. And there, just across the way, sits the faithful old apple tree. He’d sought solace under its bows ever since his mother’s disappearance, his back to the bark he would wait for the day when her hand touched his shoulder, for her to pull him into her arms and assure him that she was back, and that she’d never leave again. Zuko waited, and waited, day, after day, after day, after day, but when a hand did finally graze his arm it was not his mother, but Mai, the girl with the downcast eyes and quiet voice.

“Aren’t you hungry?” she’d asked, sliding some bread between them before sitting down. “You’ve been out here all day.”

At first he’d been reluctant to share her company, to let this girl bear witness to this sorrow that was solely his, but with time he’d come to accept and almost crave her presence; thereafter every little conversation, every stolen glance and subtle upturn of the lips taken as Azula whisked her away had meaning. He had a friend.

Zuko can see her now, back against the apple tree, she sighs, a trait she picked up from her mother as childhood ran its course to voice her distaste or boredom. As he approaches, she acknowledges him with the slight incline of her chin, revealing a jawline that will gradually sharpen over the next three years.

“What’s with the outfit?” she says, gesturing to his armor.

Zuko puffs his chest out. “I’m attending the war council later on today.”

“Your father finally invited you?”

“Well, no, but I’m going anyways.”

Mai stretches out like a cat in the sun, and much to Zuko’s disappointment, she does not inquire about why he plans on going without an invitation. “Sounds boring.”

“It’s _important_ ,” Zuko retorts, “if I’m going to be Fire Lord one day, I need to learn all I can about how to govern our country _now_. It’s my _duty_.”

She scoffs. “Duty is stupid.”

“It’s our social responsibility to bring honor to our families and country by becoming useful citizens to our nation,” he says with a frown, internally delighted with himself for quoting the palace tutor verbatim.

“My social obligation,” says Mai, “is to marry, satisfy my husband, and have sons until I drop dead—oh, don’t look at me like that, Zuko, just sit down already.” She smirks.

He does, highly aware of the color creeping up his neck and ears. She’s taken up this new habit: speaking rather bluntly about such immodest subjects—such as the private relationship of a married man and woman, and the business of producing heirs. It is an occurrence so increasingly regular that it must be intentional, _must_ be some sort of ploy to embarrass him. Afterall, causing him public mortification does seem to be one of her favorite past times, from the fountain incident all those years ago, to the dinner just last fall when the two of them had somehow ended up locked inside a broom closet together. If his pride suffered, she was always somehow involved.

“No matter the task, we all must fulfill our duties as citizens of the Fire Nation,” Zuko says, once again calling upon his memories of the many lectures he’d received over the years.

“Easy for you to say. You’re going to be Fire Lord.”

“Whatever. Responsibilities are responsibilities. You can’t just avoid them.”

“Sure I can,” she shoots back. And because he can’t gather a reply, the two of them sit in silence.

“My Uncle,” she finally says, “he and my aunt have a little cottage on one of the islands that they used to go to in the summer. Maybe I’d go there.”

Though he does, as she reminded him, have more coveted obligations than she, no matter how hard he tries to replace her image with his own, to picture a future of being sold into a passionless marriage, a future of submission, he doesn’t see it within himself to run as she would. He’s always given chase.

“There are some responsibilities you can’t escape.”

“Well,” Mai sighs, rising to her feet and brushing the grass off the back of her robes, “if the royal life ever gets old, you’re welcome to join me. Have fun at your war council.”  

**. . . . . . . . . .**

It doesn’t take much to sneak past the palace guards. Not that she really expected much security around the prince’s living quarters—not after what happened. She does nearly run into General Iroh though, and she ducks behind a corner maybe just a moment too late, but if he notices, he doesn’t say a word, walking past her hiding place without so much as a glance. She’d had her reservations about coming, for not only did her intentions compromise the privacy of her feelings and emotions, it was beyond her knowledge whether or not Zuko had even been released from intensive care in the first place. But her ears serve her well enough.

She can hear him through his bedroom door, and it takes all she has not to cover her ears and run away. Crying is an awful sound. And there’s something about his tears—so devastated, so desperate, more tears of despair than anything else despite the pain from his physical injury—his agony transforms itself into a grimace on her face.

Mai wonders if it hurts. To cry. Can he still feel the pain? Or have the nerves been too badly  damaged? Can he even cry to begin with?

Slowly, she raises a fist to the door, and knocks, yet there is no reply amongst the sobs. “Zuko?” she says, turning the knob. Mai catches a glimpse of the room in total disarray, the silhouette of his his seated figure on his bed, the carpet scorched and shards of mirror littering the floor, before something shatters against the door.

“Get out.”

But she stands there in the crack of the door, eyes averted, taking no action to move until Zuko sends something crashing into the door, hard enough so that it slams shut in her face.

“I said, get out!”

The crying begins again, though this time it’s muffled, making the sound somehow even more pitiful.

She’s about to take her leave, because she’s just a nobleman’s daughter and he’s a prince, and she’s supposed to do as she’s told, but recent events throw her judgement for a loop, meddling with the hierarchy in a way she’s unfamiliar with. And so Mai simply sits back against the wall, listening to the tears of a dishonored prince…

Mai waits. She waits long after the sun has gone from the windows, long after the birds have ceased their daytime singing. She’s surely missed supper, and her mother is bound to give her a scolding—though in retrospect a mere scolding can’t really be that bad.

And then she asks, in a voice so quiet she doubts Zuko can even hear her through the bedroom door: “Is it true? Are you really leaving?”

She’s only heard rumours--bits and pieces—the palace has been full of whispers for the past six days: talk of the events that transpired, the prince branded as a disgrace by his own father and banished.

Banished.

And then her answer comes in a voice toneless and already lost at sea. “Tomorrow. At sunrise,” is all he says.

She remembers the days when she could still hide behind her mother’s robes, when she’d watch the ships leave port, heading off to the warfront, a thousand hulking iron figures becoming mere silhouettes and shadowed reflections on the ocean water, growing farther and farther away until they disappeared off into the horizon. She remembers the mourning mothers who stood on the shore when word came home about the sons and daughters lost in battle, their lamenting cries an unsettling song, the sea foam flecked with white flowers and petals meant for the lost.   

There will be no white petals scattered across the water for Zuko. Not for the disgraced prince. There will be no letters bearing news of his well-being, no mourning mother, no funeral ceremony, only one lone ship sailing into the vast unending sea, disappearing from sight and memory.

There’s no point in grieving—yet she feels herself doing so all the same. Her eyes sting with unexpected tears, and a heaviness settles in her limbs and chest; she rises to her feet, hand turning the doorknob, denying the years of lectures dictating proper etiquette and ignoring the shame of the tears that have begun to dot her cheeks, her pride overwhelmed by the swelling need to say goodbye.

This time, he doesn’t say a word and she doesn’t either, looking down at her hands as she takes a seat on the edge of his bed, the space between them cavernous.

Mai stares straight ahead, her arms trembling as she struggles to compose herself. “I don’t remember when it happened,” she says, her voice quivering, betraying her, but she pushes on, past every instinct that screams at her to stop. “You should know before you leave… I should tell you…” But before she can say it, he speaks, and the three words she summoned up the courage to feel and speak aloud, three words she never thought she’d ever say in her lifetime, die in her throat.

“Don’t mourn for me,” Zuko says. And it hurts.  

Don’t mourn for him. After all those stolen days beneath the apple tree, light flecking in a mosaic through the leaves, those moments when their hands brushed by chance, or when they held each other’s gaze just a little too long in the instants where silence spoke loudest. After that one summer day when their lips had met, half in curiosity and half in pink flushed cheeks, neither of them saying a word after, but surely, _surely_ he must have felt it too. And he asks her not to mourn—how could she not?

“I’ll capture the Avatar. I will return,” he speaks with resolve, resolve she had thought deserted him. She always did tend to underestimate him.

“Promise me,” Mai says, her hand closing the distance, her fingers curling over his right hand. “Promise me you’ll come back.”

He looks straight at her. And she sees him, _really_ sees him for the first time in what seems like forever. White gauze obscures nearly the entire left side of his face, the skin around his right eye swollen and his nose red from crying, but it’s still there. The fight in his eye.

“I will return. I swear to you,” he says.  

And she believes him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Turns strictly AU after Zuko's banishment
> 
> Chapter 2 by Kasaihanaa

This ship is home now, a rickety and pathetically small vessel graciously adorned with his own quarters and a small crew. It is home, but it is a home that he forces himself into through gritted teeth and regret. With it, comes resentment for himself and the things he’s mistakenly left behind; no respect, no future, and no crown—her. His chances to prove his worth had all but diminished, he is left with nothing but a futile chase, and this inferior hunk of metal that only seems to mock just how low he’d fallen. And so it begins, and he presses himself into the bow looking over the horizon and willing himself to get closer to the sun as it set.

The faster he can finish this journey the faster he can come home and resume his life as it was supposed to be.

Zuko shifts his gaze as he hears footsteps before noting the greying beard and the gruff voice that lately brings nothing but annoyance, “Prince Zuko, you should rest, we have only just left this morning. I think you need a little relaxation before you stress yourself with the great duty that has been given to you.

“First, we head a course for the Western Air Temple. Then the northern, eastern and southern temples, understood?”

Iroh nods putting his hands into his sleeves.

“Then we begin with the most remote places, if it looks like he could be there, that’s where we’ll go.” 

He has a promise to keep after all, but the first voyages take up two years. Within those years he begins to change—leaving  features to grow creased and any remnants of a smile fades and becomes nearly nonexistent. A careful, sweet boy becomes marred, and as the bandages came off the change in features had come with a change of heart. He was not the same child, and somehow he knew he would not become the man he had hoped. Through that distaste for his forced future and his own regret he was bitter and worn and it showed. 

They travel for months at first. Months that fade and bleed into years. Somewhere, maybe a year back, his determination had all but withered as well, the only drive to continue being his anger and his extensive wish to prove he was more than a failure. 

He wants to call it a stroke of luck that he finds the Avatar before anyone else does, but the further along things get the more ridiculous the situation becomes. The Avatar, is nothing but a child, and Zuko can almost feel the mockery that wants to breathe anxiously down his neck. 

“He’s probably laughing at me.” 

“Regardless of my brother’s true intentions with your banishment, I hardly think he has the time to laugh at you.” 

Zuko deadpans, sliding a tile across the pai sho board, “I wasn’t talking about my father.”

He doesn’t hate his uncle, only resents how he can be so tranquil through all of this. While Zuko constantly parades through the ships close quarters tensed with frustration, the old man hardly lifts a finger. Of course, he claims it’s all out of good intent, but what does he know? He already failed at one aspect of the war, spirits only know why he volunteered to come along for another.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t be the first,” Zuko sighs, furrowing his brow as Iroh moves another tile, “between him, the commander, and everyone else, I guess I just have to get used to being the most pathetic man in the Fire Nation.”

It wasn’t surprising to know. Commander Zhao had very vividly expressed his every intention on keeping Zuko from his goal. From the Agni Kai at the port to his latest failure at the Sage’s temple, he had made his position very clear. Regardless of that, it wouldn’t be the means for an end or even a slow of progress, just a few adjustments on tactic and no mistakes. But that of course, was always too much to ask. 

Iroh’s voice droans back in, and Zuko tries to soften his glare. “Pathetic? No. You’re hardly a man, and you have much more to learn before you can even be considered such. Starting with your Pai Sho.” 

“Unfortunately for you, I like to think there’s more to life than a stupid table game.”  

**. . . . . . . . . .**

Of all foolish things he picks up the mask. It’s a last resort, but he refuses to be stuck in this life, always swaying over the line between disgrace and decency. Zhao's making moves that’ll cost him, and he’s certain now that this is his last resort—even with the potential consequence that lingers, he fastens the sheath, putting on the mask. 

Zuko counts his steps as he goes off the ship and into the woods. There’s ten steps off the bank until he takes to counting trees. As he walks he thinks of time and how much he’s stolen. Minutes here, hours there, even days and weeks—yet, more was stolen form him. He imagines if this works how things will go. There’s countless scenarios where he is welcomed and glorified in each, and his position is upheld. But, there’s always one quiet memory, one simple wish, that when he returns she’ll be there and he will have kept that promise. They can resume things were they were left, with friendship and more happiness than he thought capable, but the longing is far too distant.  

The sound of voices bring him back and he slows, pressing his back into a tree. 

He used to dream of this when he was a kid watching plays. The story always portrayed dragons and a dark spirit. It was ironic, how he dreamt of being able to hide within the walls, to stay undetected through the corridors of the emperor’s rafters and the curves that lined roof. Now, he felt like he had done it, though the scheme wasn’t the same, and the stage far too large where unfortunately he played the lead.

The guard tower is just west, and there’s archers positioned in each. Surprisingly their backs are turned, and he takes the opportunity to scale the wall and position himself on the guard tower. 

Once he’s returned to the ship he feels diluted. Zhao’s been promoted and he has plans that will tear everything from him. Every initial tactic he planned—every step, all of it was put to waste, and now relies on every move someone _else_ makes. 

To let out the frustration he trains on the deck, until Uncle’s steps interrupt. 

“Is everything okay? It's been almost an hour, and you haven't given the men an order.” 

“I don’t care what they do.” Zuko snaps back, “my honor, my throne, my country, I’m about to lose them all.”

“I don’t think now is the time to—”

Zuko ignores him, clenching his fists.

That night the mission nearly fails. Zhao captures the Avatar first, and keeps him in the same fort that housed the archers. Everything goes accordingly, he gets in and out of the fort Avatar in hand, with this swords pressed lightly to the boy’s neck. This isn’t his first choice—and it _is_ treason, as much as he’d hate to admit.

But, once he’d thought he’d won, he still succumbed to the archers. And from there, everything went black.

Weeks pass, and Zuko counts himself lucky. Zhao didn’t succeed, and Uncle had found him in the forest. There hasn’t been any word, and the ship has sailed smoothly since. But despite the short lived peace, Zhao’s ship shadows his, and before long Zhao’s on board, doing what he’d call, inspections.

“What does he want?” Zuko growls. “Get off my ship.”

His gaze narrows as Zhao spends too long looking at the the swords, before swiveling, “We’re looking for the Blue Spirit, have you heard of him?” 

“No.”

“He uses swords much like these. And he’s a real threat to the nation.”

“Well, he isn’t here. And as for those, they’re _antiques_.”

“—and you, General Iroh? Have you heard of the Blue Spirit?”

“I have, though I don’t think his existence is one to be be worried over, Admiral.”

“Oh, he exists, and I assure you—we’re going to find him. He’ll be brought to justice very soon.”

By the time the sun sets Zuko grows uneasy, taking to laying in the shadows of his room. In one visit, Zhao’s taken command of his soldiers and left him with nothing but the metal hull.

“The crew wishes you luck on your travels.”

“Good riddance to those traitors.”

Iroh offers to take a walk, and is brushed off. There’s no calming to be done, and no fresh air is going to cure all he’s about to lose.

Once he leaves, Zuko groans, rolling over several times, before settling on the fact that he is meant to be uncomfortable, and that isn’t going to change either. His father was right, he is pathetic and it has everything to do with his birth. You were either intended to be strong or weak, built to rule and climb ladders, but instead he constantly falls.

But despite that, all he misses is home. The corridors, the attendants and the maids, his one and only friend. Was that it? That the entire memory is housed on one attachment, one small thing that given him compassion when everything else had all but vanished? Then shouldn’t it be easier to cope? Shouldn’t it be easier than hanging onto the quiet sounds of their breathing, and the way she listens and waits, always reassuring always there. And he used to do the same.

This quiet though, is not the same. And he hears the patter of steps.

“Uncle?” Zuko calls out, taking a hesitant down the hall, “who’s there?”

Every which way he turns, no one passes by, leaving a clear path to the watch tower, which much to his dismay is also vacant. Things have gone quiet again, and the footsteps are gone, except for a soft hiss he can’t place.

Once he sees the fuse he’s out of time. The ship combusts and he bends as much as he can in frantic movements. Some of the glass and metal still manages to get through, and when he hits the water it’s colder than he imagined and he nearly hits his head on a bit of the hull while he comes up for air.

No one finds him by the morning, and he’s almost entirely sure Iroh thinks he’s dead. There’s decisions to be made now. But just how much more can he calculate after this? Death means a new life, coming back means reworking his way through the grime and the muddy water in every sense. Old or new? Part of him wants old, but at the same time, just as easily it could become a life he once knew, where that is his past, and his decisions now become the present, and he can live free. 

As he thinks, he props himself up behind a tree, occasionally rubbing away the blood from the scratches and scrapes.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 by Kasaihanaa

Zuko curses from behind the mask. Three days in this city and not a single problem had arose until now. Since the explosion there has been word of him. Or what he is now. A criminal, enemy of the nation, his title as prince dead amongst the rest of him. Sunk with the ship.

There’s a vacancy to this city, even in the daylight hours, only a few citizens trickle in or out from their latched doors and closed windows, exchanging goods with the soldiers then retreating as fast as they came. From the spot on the roof, he can make out the outline of the city, and the chutes, watching as they unfold and sweep along the buildings. It’s an easy enough route away if something goes wrong. In most cases.

Through the empty streets he slides and jumps from roof to roof, before making it to the city’s center. Since Omashu’s reoccupation they move in a noble family trustworthy enough to keep the citizens on their knees. Governors, generals and the like, usually he steers clear to avoid being recognized. Though, with the mask it isn’t as likely and the night is working in his favor as well.

The family that seems to have taken over the city is familiar. The man, stalky in stature always trailed by his wife a few steps behind, her hands curled carefully around a toddler. Behind her is what seems to be the daughter, quiet, bored expression and seemingly distant. For whatever reason it sparks interest, and Zuko slips from shadow to shadow until he realizes it is in fact, Mai.

A twinge of guilt runs through him then, leaving him to back into the shadows in retreat.

Mai doesn’t want to remember sometimes. The curve of his jaw or the subtle dents in his skin. The last few years she’s waivered on those memories. Walked through them silently, reminiscing where they sat and played, spoke and shared secrets, and she couldn’t help but think when she wandered. Wondering if he was different now, or if he was the same, was he still trying, or if he’d given up on her just as she did herself.

Omashu is a dreadful city, and the citizens all but faded underground. Since their arrival, the streets is significantly silent, aside from the clinking of the metal armor of their troops and when she walks, they simply nod all the while she looks down, twirling a small knife within her sleeves.

Nothing ever happens. The ease of occupying the city was so swift it was nauseating, and coming here too was far too much of a breeze. A few weeks of travel and still, she had to wait for the furnishings to be changed out of that ghastly green, and the apartments in the center of the city to be built, all the while she sits, twirling knives and roaming the streets at night fall.

The first night she sees it, she thinks nothing of it. The citizens scale the roofs some nights, and with a flick of the wrist they fall and the guards carry them off by morning. Nights are run like this too. Shadows dance amongst the alleys and whispers can be heard through a few windows. But so long as no one breaks curfew there’s nothing more or less to worry over.

But this particular target always seems to be a miss. He’s come the last two nights masked and armed. Perching quietly on the rooftop, watching as her family eases in and out of the terrace. Quietly, she waits until they're gone, before turning and making her way toward the streets.

It's a quiet night for the most part, but he always ends up here. Watching and waiting for something—anything but also wishing for nothing. He knows now that it's her and that it's better she doesn't know. In the night he shifts from alley to rooftop, occasionally perching on her terrace before following her onto the streets.

She's always been careful, calculative, even now as he watches she occasional flicks her gaze left and right or even just past where he hides.

When she looks again she flicks her wrist and Zuko hears it before he sees, dodging at the last second as one of her darts graze his side. Quickly he makes his way off of the opposing end of the roof, running full speed down one of the chutes.

It's a steeple chase of sorts, maneuvering between slides and bins, rooftops and alley ways. Every street they pass with a nick in the plaster, a knife protruding from shingles or shacks. Until he stops, and she slows, taking slow steps forward until she can hear his breathing from behind the mask.

Mai sighs, running a finger along the butt of her next blade, "I was hoping this would be more fun."

Zuko tenses, trying to calculate when to reach for his swords. Too fast, and as soon as he does he grunts hitting a nearby wall. He’s anchored, pulling against the knives that keep him pinned. This was a stupid, stupid idea. Watching her family—her, and his pulse pounds rhythmically through his ears, boiling his blood and reducing him to more frantic movements and nervous sweats. What’s more is the voice that resonates with him, the familiar rasp, but he refuses to look much past the shadows and get the confirmation of it.

“Really, it was much too easy.” Mai says, taking a few steps forward and curling her hand around the base of the knives that hold him.

It’s pathetic, how he wishes to dissolve into the plaster, pressing back hard against the wall, eyes shut tight,  until she pulls fast, and he drops, finally looking up.

“The Blue Spirit.” Mai drawls, “then again, maybe I'm speaking too soon. This might not be so boring after all.”

At that he scrambles to get up, unsheathing his swords and holding them up defensively, before slowly backing away, the nick on his calf leaving him with a slight limp. He slips back, slowly allowing himself and her image to be enguled in the shadows. As she fades he notices her smirk, hand poised on her blade, and he runs, taking to the roofs.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

For days she questions why she didn’t do it. Rid the world of him, turn him in for the merit, perhaps get her father some more bravado to further swell his head. But the entertainment was too great. The utter thrill of the chase, the excitement it allotted. Not to mention the mystery.

And he wonders the same. If this meeting was chance, if his risk of being exposed is worth the uphill battle. If she would be enraged that he never returned, or if he was even worth the the chance of reconnecting.

Three years could tatter souls, he knew that well. And something behind the smirk and the amusement seemed to have dulled something behind her eyes. It hurt to know, and with it came guilt, the pain of knowing they had both come out of this broken, and more so the uncertainty that he may never understand just how much.

But wasn’t freedom at his own expense? This desertion of name and title meant he could be free of it—free her of it? And yet, there was always the lingering doubt that perhaps she enjoyed this life. Free of him, free of his burden, and he could always refuse to cause her that pain.

He decides he doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to know if she missed him as he did her, if she was miserable, happy, comfortable, or pleased with the life she had lead, and if so, was there any place for him left?

Zuko sighs, eyeing the mask before carefully pushing himself up from the array of shingles. The buildings at this end of the city are particularly faulty, lower class from what he assumes with the way the roofs overlap creating the overhang he uses for shelter some nights. Nonetheless, it’s a temporary home, a place to think, and when he scrounges enough it’s a place to eat.

Each time he stays the Fire Nation patrols are more capable of becoming familiar with his patterns, so he takes to the streets again, slipping through alleys, gliding across the buildings and down the chutes, with every intention of keeping his focus on watching their formations and how they do their sweeps throughout the night.

But somehow he missteps, finding himself on her balcony like so many nights before.

Something’s off this time, and he allows himself to sit, and watch and observe, muscles relaxed as he sits on the roof’s edge.

He remembers this much. How she always took to quiet things. Books and the like, quiet talks under the apple tree and silence stares between the two of them. It was different then, almost easy, and now he wonders if she’ll even be capable of putting a name to his face.

Zuko’s mind wanders farther than he’d like, and when she speaks he nearly falls.

“Most people don’t show again after losing a fight.” She sighs, shutting her book and resting it in her lap.

He’s tensed now, hunched and ready to spring off as needed.

“There’s _quite_ the price on your head, you know.” Mai continues, “—my father would be more than pleased to know that the Blue Spirit is nothing more than your regular bandit. Stalking through the night to do nothing but scare women, children.”

Again he hears, and he springs, dodging this time and making his retreat back the way he came. Zuko flies down alleys, under and over the chutes, until he finally shakes her, breathing heavily around a corner until he hears steps.

“Come on, aren’t I supposed to be the scared one?” Mai taunts, and Zuko watches as her shadow draws near.

She takes careful steps, with cat-like silence as she attempts to listen for his breathing, once she rounds the corner she feels the weight of him, pressing until she grunts with the wall  at her back and his swords to her neck.

There’s the clink of armor in the distance, and their ragged breaths soon reduce to silence until they pass.

Mai exhales first, “You’re getting better.” She watches as his focus slips for just a moment, before jutting a fist out and hitting him just below the sternum. He stumbles and she moves fast, pinning him just as before.

“But still, you’re boring me.”

She keeps a knife carefully places to his Adam’s apple, elbow pressed firmly pressed into his chest as a free hand slips up, carefully fumbling with the lower sash of the mask.

By then he becomes hectic, breath ragged, and his head turning this way and that.

“Stay still.”

“Mai, don’t!”

She freezes for a moment, blinking in awe, before snapping back, compelled to get off the mask. She only pulls it away a few inches, letting her breath hitch as she sees the gold of his burned eye and the entirety of the scar.

Then they part, and she quietly hands the mask back, looking at the toes of her boots, “Zuko?”

He stays silent, debating words and apologies, where instead he retreats, giving her one last glance before taking back down the alley and into the night again.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

There's another seemingly endless string of days that passes. Mai waits, situated on the terrace during the day, and wandering the streets by night. Not necessarily looking, but not avoiding trying to run into him either.

The tables turned in that way and she feels pathetic. Watching and waiting, looking but also not, floating between this yearning and this forced lack of desire. And once he does come, her heart skips a beat.

It’s one night she walks back into the palace, turning down corridors that are still the ghastly shade of green due to the slow renovations. Making her way into her chambers before sprawling out across the mattress.

“Security could be better.”

Mai jumps then, flicking her wrist and sending a knife flying just past his temple.

Zuko freezes, jerking his head as the knife lodges into the wall, “I’m sorry I scared you.”

“Get out of here.”

“How are you?”

“Fantastic, Zuko.” Mai scoffs, “How are you liking the city?”

“I said I was sorry.”

“How long have you been watching me?”

“Not long.”

“And you couldn’t say a word?”

“No, and you know _exactly_ why I couldn’t.” He remembers her next expression well. Practiced composure that looks that might crack if she much as moves a muscle. Tears almost, but she never lets them fall.

“I believed you.” Mai says, attempting to  hold her glare, “You said you’d come back. You swore.”

“—and I did.”

“Hardly! This is not the circumstance, nor is it the time.”

Not when his life hung with so much fragility in the balance, not with news of his supposed death, and the wager on that hung over his new persona. This wasn’t a return, it was an escape—thought through by a fool who couldn’t see the dangers in front of him. And still, she gets up, striding to him in angry steps, once again, forcing him into the wall. But here, there are no knives, no snide comments or taunts. Mai collapses, holding her glare, hands pressed firmly to his chest, allowing tears.

She mourns again. For the first time in years the silence doesn’t speak for them. Instead, it’s ridden with confusion, shock, worry, all of the things they always tried to seek solace from in each other.

Zuko grows impatient and closes the distance, pushing into her hands until she curls into him, allowing him to wrap around her in an embrace.

“You promised.” She murmurs, hands curling just slightly into his tunic.

He looks down then, burying his face in her hair, and tightening his grip, “I came back.” he begins, breathing in her saint, and the now faint memory of their past, "And not a single day passed I didn’t wish I told you that I—”

She settles then, in his arms, relaxing but still keeping her grasp on the fabric of his shirt. He wants to finish it, say what he means, but instead he pulls back, ducking low to meet her gaze, before softly brushing his lips against hers, leaving them with nothing but the silence.

They stay like that, eyes meeting for a long moment, with his hand curled around the nape of her neck as he breathes, “Now you know.”

“Now I know,” Mai smiles and slips away, taking her hand in his before making her way for the terrace.

They spend weeks like this. Going about the days in normalcy, until Zuko shows up on her balcony in the night.

Mai likes to poke fun at the idea, about folk tales told in a similar way, even the one having to do with Omashu itself. The Cave of Two Lovers, the only thing missing was the labyrinth—and yet, the scene was the same. Meeting behind everyone else’s blind eye. Their own secret place—silent, comfortable, all to themselves, and not a soul needed to understand.

They spend nights, night that fade into days, where they lay curled into the sheets,peppering kisses along jaw lines and exposed skin. Tracing contours of the swell of her breasts, and every other form that’s filled out over the years. It’s different, welcome, and intimate, and for a moment they forget the fear, and the distance.  Laughing, smiling, sharing expression that they never thought possible amidst the circumstances. Understanding and mapping every bit of each other’s frame, from the mind and everywhere in between, all twisted in the sheets.

Until they say it—three words, breathlessly, seamlessly and without hesitance, a thousand times over in the silence until it slips out through sound.

“I love you.” Mai finally says, smitten, her smile radiating through him.

“I love you, too.”

“One day, we’ll be far from here, hm?” she sighs, curling into his chest.

“Anywhere you want to go.”

“There’s a place,” she starts, “back home on one of the islands.”

“What’s it like?” Zuko says, pushing back her bangs as he strokes her hair.

“It’s small, comfortable, but still extravagant. It sits right on the water, and there’s a nice boardwalk with cherry blossoms looming over.”

He smiles as she loses herself, going on and about architecture, from paneled floors, rice-paper lined doors, until she strings him along all the way to what seasons the flowers are in bloom. She ends on how the war will be a distant memory—the scars too.

It’s Mai’s smile that holds him. So subtle and yet hidden in any other moment, except for when she’s with him. He appreciates that, the comfort, the joy, and the fact that he feels the same entirely. But before long reality tugs them back again, and things begin to change.

Over time, the governor and the guard do become suspicious. But not of Zuko. Patrols are heavier, and the citizens are beginning to grow more restless. The guard frequents the palace more, and there’s a constant presence around Mai as the days pass, leaving Zuko to come less and less.

“There really is no fathoming the depths of my hatred for this place.” Mai says, flanked by four guards as her mother trails, baby cradled in her arms.

“You’ll become more accustomed soon. Besides, you should be happy. We’re like royalty here.”

It’s a regular sweep, and her mother insists they follow to know every hall and turn the palace the allows. Mai knows, better than she should, and instead disregards their cautions and is quick to leave as soon as it ends.

Zuko doesn’t appear again for another week, held up in the shadows of the balcony.

“It’s not safe for you here.”

“I know.”

And here they are again. Here, instead with no doors to obsure the view, vulnerable in every right, holding their gaze until Mai speaks and her voice shakes, “You’re leaving again.” she takes a deep breath, in and out and he looks down as her lip trembles.

“Yes.” There’s uncertainty to it. Ridden with reluctance and regret, but he continues, “In the morning, at sunrise.”

It’s become a mantra, a painful replay of three years ago, and she clenches her fists, “No.”

“Mai.”

“I’m coming.”

“No, you’ll just get dragged into everything, and I can’t—”

“Zuko, I don’t care.” She slares, her mind flickering to sea foam and petals, “I don’t care what happens, we’ll go from here. But i’m not going through it again.”

He wants to deny her. Leave her here where it’s safe, and she can live without his shame—and danger that lurks, but he can’t bring himself to. “Fine. We’ll keep going. I’ll meet you outside of the walls. We’ll go from there. Refugees, Ba Sing Se, whatever it takes.” Zuko takes a breath, “It’ll be different now.”

Mai smiles then, the most genuine smile he thinks he’s ever seen. Softened, and without remorse, so much excitement and certainty hung in one curve of her lips. With that, he comes forward, kissing her before pulling away and letting his hands slips to the small of her waist.

“Sunrise.” He says.

“Sunrise.” Mai breathes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 by Cupofdaydream

Zuko still hasn’t gotten quite used to the weight of it around his neck—the silver seashell hanging from the chain.

 _To remind us of where we’re going_ , Mai had said, slipping the matching one down the front of her robes. And then she kissed him.

As he and Shun split wood behind the shop, their shirts tucked into the back of their waistbands, rags to clear the salty sweat from their brows, the shell hangs just at his heart, swinging to and fro like a pendulum, ticking away the working moments, and saving them away in the hollow of the shell, until they can trade them in for their cottage at the sea.  

Zuko splits his last log of wood, and then stands idly until Shun grumbles. “Go ahead. You’re no use to me distracted.”

Zuko thanks him before throwing on his shirt and heading across the street.

They’ve adjusted well to life behind the walls. Most of it’s been luck. They were lucky that Hana, a Middle Ring resident no less, was looking to employ that very week they arrived in Ba Sing Se, lucky that Mai had a surprisingly abundant knowledge about flowers— _One of my aunts owns a flower shop_ , she’d said with a shrug, _My parents liked to ship me there over summers_ —lucky that Hana had been kind enough to get “Lee” a job across the street with Shun, who was, luckily, as exceedingly patient as he was grumpy:

 _Have you ever worked a day in your life?_ Shun had eyed Zuko’s work warily.

Zuko’s mind flashed to the blue, fanged mask at the bottom of his knapsack, reasoning that stealing probably didn’t qualify as honest labor. _Never in carpentry_ , was all he said.

When he finds her, she’s tending to Azaleas in the back garden, pruning leaves and inspecting the blooms and soil. Zuko steps quietly, inching and closer and closer towards her occupied figure.

“Don’t even try,” she says without looking up. “You reek. I could smell you the moment you entered the room.”

Zuko deflates, and then wraps his arms around her anyways, fending off her good-humored protests. “It’s no fair,” he says, “After a hard days work, I smell of sweat and sawdust while you smell of peonies and roses.”

“Oh, the injustice,” Mai murmurs into his neck. And she can’t be all that bothered by the smell because she kisses him—kisses him hard, fingers tangling in his sweat-soaked hair, her slender frame pressed up against his. They kiss, and they kiss, and it’s all too easy to forget that the both of them are runaways—one a banished prince posing as dead, the other the daughter of a noble who vanished with the break of morning light—and all too easy to pretend that they really are the newlywed refugee couple that they say they are.  

“It doesn’t _sound_ like flowers are getting watered back there,” Hana’s voice carries from the front.

They part, the flush of their cheeks matching the azaleas that surround them.  

Mai sighs. “I’ll be finished in another hour or so,” she kisses him hard on the lips one last time before leaning closer to his ear, “Then let’s get you washed up.”

Later, as the sun leaves the sky, they lie tangled together on the futon, hair still damp, the smell of soap still fresh on their skin. Zuko’s trailing a finger across the soft skin of her belly when it rumbles—he looks at her, grinning, and she rolls her eyes.

“That’s the dinner bell. Come on.” she says, rummaging through the sheets for her nightgown, and settling for Zuko’s shirt.

“One more round. Then we’ll eat.”

“Tempting, but that’s what you said yesterday, and we ended up skipping dinner altogether.”

“I see no problem with that tradeoff.”

Mai presses an affectionate kiss to his lips before untangling herself from his hold. She stands before the sheets and pillows, leaving Zuko to revel in how well she wears his shirt, how it nearly slips off the perfect curve of her shoulders, how the cloth is so sheer it nearly betrays all that it tries to hide, how when she stretches, the hem teases him so, rising dangerously high.

“Come on. I’m hungry, and you won’t find my stomach nearly as funny when it keeps us up all night with its complaining.” Her hips sway as she turns on her heel and walks to the kitchen.

Zuko relents, throwing on his pants and following after her.

They may not be formally married—there were no betrothal gifts, no tea ceremonies, no formal ceremony, not even a real exchanging of vows—but it doesn’t feel like they’re _pretending_ either. What they have is real.

They disagree over trivial things just as they always have, and neither of them has taken a particular liking to doing the dishes or cleaning—not that they have much to clean anyways—and they still haven’t completely figured out that communication thing one hundred percent. But it will come with time. Little by little they become the other’s conch on the beach, whispering secrets and confessions into the hollow of the shell where they’re guarded over by the crash of the waves upon the sand within.   

They love passionately, and make love just as ardently. In their haven between the sheets, they’re naked and vulnerable, they hold each other tight, limbs tangled together until they can’t tell where one body ends and the other begins. And it’s only here, above her moonlit figure, her eyes closed and lips parted is he Zuko once more. Not the refugee from the west. Not Lee. It’s only here, whispered names and labored breaths in the dead of night are they the boy and girl who fell in love beneath the apple tree all those years ago, who ran away together to see the world.  

Sunrises are spent basking in the morning sun, fingers laced together, with morning-breath laced kisses that make her nose crinkle in disgust in the cutest of ways, they hang on to every precious second until they’re forced to rise for the day. He’s lived a life of loneliness, thought himself accustomed to the solitude, thought himself destined to die alone, a single star flickering out one day, its absence gone unnoticed in the vastness of the universe, and yet it feels so _right_ sleeping and waking next to her, brewing two cups of tea instead of one. What they have is something Zuko never knew he wanted— _needed_ —in the first place. What they have is history, and rekindled love, twelve weeks spent in the entirety of one another’s company, twelve weeks spent in interminable bliss. They have a future.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

“Word around the street is that you do some of the finest woodwork in all of Ba Sing Se,” the man says as he exchanges a velvet pouch of coins for a handshake with Shun. It’s an odd sight, Shun’s worn and weathered hands locked with well manicured nails and porcelain skin that reaches out from a green silk robe, the man’s palanquin not ten yards away. “I’d be happy to invest in your business—move you up to the Inner Ring, with your own shop and everything.”

Shun gives a noncommittal grunt.

“Just think on it. I’ll collect your response when I come to collect the chairs. But I can assure you it’d be a deal well-made. Why, just the other day, I brought a teamaker up from the Lower Ring. A nice old man who makes spectacular tea—business is already booming! It’s really a touching story—he talked about how owning his own tea shop had been a dream of his and his nephew who’d recently passed on. Perhaps it’s a dream of yours too for you and your boy, eh?” the man winks at Zuko as he climbs into his palanquin.

“Wait! The old man—what was his name?”

But the man doesn’t respond; his mouth agape, his eyes are trained upwards.

They rain from the sky like petals from the cherry blossoms in the spring. The games of tag in the streets come to a halt, a rare silence sweeps over the street venders and their potential customers, usually locked into haggling and bartering. Everyone’s eyes are to the sky, paper fluttering to the ground and it’s as if snowfall has come to Ba Sing Se.  

Shun grabs one out of the dirt, examining it thoroughly, tilting his head and the paper as if it’ll somehow help him understand. He grumps and begins picking up others from the ground.

“What are they?” Zuko asks.

Shun shrugs. “Fire kindling.”

Zuko snatches one of the falling pieces out of the air, and turns it over. Something deep inside of him wakes. It opens its eyes wearily, unaware just for a moment of its bearings, and then it explodes to life. Old instinct consumes him. And Zuko, Shun calling after him, races away, and climbs to the top of a nearby roof tower; he searches the skies for the familiar figure that used to plague his dreams relentlessly so, searches the clouds for a shadowed silhouette. And yet, there’s nothing. Only a light breeze that ruffles the papers on the ground, and sends the ones still on their descent flitting through the air.   

Zuko clenches the poster in his hands. He recognizes this beast. The drawing accurately portrays its bushy bangs, and almond seed eyes, the brown arrow that runs across its body front to back, yet fails to capture the power of the ferocious jaws hidden by its deceivingly endearing bulging cheeks. Lost sky bison. Reward. He turns and almost calls out for his uncle until he remembers. The banished prince is dead, blown up in a tragic gas-leak explosion. He’s Lee now, and Lee doesn’t have an Uncle Iroh, Lee has no ship to command. Lee left his home voluntarily, left his small town in the west of the Earth Kingdom with his fiance for a better life in Ba Sing Se. Lee is not chasing the Avatar to get back home.

And yet his mind reels and plots. He calculates different strategies to chase the Avatar down, for surely it can’t be all that hard—not when his group’s main mode of transportation is missing. Or perhaps he could do them a little favor and track down the beast himself. Perhaps a bargain could be met…

“Lee! What are you doing up there? Get down. I need your help staining a table,” Shun calls from below.

The spell breaks, and Zuko shoves the urge away, sweeping it beneath the carpet and out of sight, descends the building,  and follows Shun’s hunched figure back to the workshop.

The man and his palanquin are gone.

He gets back to the apartment late that night, his cold dinner set out and Mai still at the table, her back to him, she’s bent over something on the table, looking it over intently.

“Shun kept me back late,” Zuko explains as he approaches, and there’s a shuffle as her hands quickly slide the piece of parchment in front of her into her robes.

Both their minds are elsewhere tonight. He can feel her eyes on him as he eats, analyzing, calculating, trying to discern his mood and knowledge like she would the distance of a target from her knife. And then she asks in a measured and cautious voice: “How was your day?”

The question sours his already agitated mood. It’s as if she’s mocking him—isn’t their emotional intimacy far past the level of small talk? “Fine. Why wouldn’t it be?” Zuko challenges.

Mai hesitates. “Nothing. Just forget I even asked.”

“Look. I know the Avatar is in the city. I’m not a child, so you don’t have to act like I am.”  

As soon as he’s on his feet, she stands to counter him, her shoulders set back and her defiant chin tilted forward, yet despite her defensive stance, the narrowing of her eyes telling him to watch himself, her voice comes out with only a slight bite to the end of her words: “I didn’t know how you would take it.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Before all this you’d been chasing that legend for _three years_. How was I supposed to know what would happen?”

“Well what are you so _scared_ of happening?”

“Whatever. Just drop it, Zuko.”

“No. Come on. Tell me.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“What are you so afraid of?! Dammit, you gotta tell me, Mai!”  

“Zuko!”—and then she lowers to an unsettlingly calm and measured tone, each word punctuated by a split second pause of threatening silence—”Lower your voice.”

He tears himself away from her glare, and storms away to the other side of the room, he feels his frustration boiling in his fingertips, and he throws his unclenched fists open, making a show of closing his eyes and regulating his breathing, trying to calm the heat rising in his skin. When he returns to face her, she still stands resilient.

“What are you so afraid of?” he repeats. His voice wavers less of frustration and more of fear, for he knows the answer. It’s what he’s scared of too.

She doesn’t respond at first. But then the austerity of her gaze flickers away for just a moment. “That you would leave,” she says.

The entire apartment holds its breath.

And then Zuko leaves. He grabs the knapsack hidden away in the back of the closet, and stalks to the window.

“Where are you going?” her voice hasn’t lost its evenness, and yet it’s softer, only a little more than a whisper.

“Don’t worry,” Zuko replies, bitterness heavy in his voice. “I’m coming back.” And then he slips out the window. He climbs to the top of their building, and hops from rooftop to rooftop. At one point he looks back, and he can still see their apartment window, illuminated in the dark of the night. She’s still standing there, figure unmoved from when they argued over the table; and Zuko wonders if she’ll turn around so that he can see her face, but she never does.

Eventually he settles on a rooftop on the edge of the Middle Ring, next to the wall that separates them from the upper echelon. He hangs his head in his hands and sighs, the seashell dangling in front of him. Zuko curses silently to himself. He doesn’t belong here—alone in the dead of night atop a roof—he belongs next to her, on their futon on the floor, his fingers grazing hers below the covers.  

What is he doing, alone atop this roof, mind chasing what had never been more than a myth just months earlier, when one of the only things that’s ever been truly real sleeps in half empty sheets on the apartment floor? Back in Omashu, when they’d said let’s run, let’s leave this all behind, when she’d broken free from the societal confines that kept her caged, kept her the bartering piece of her parents, a pretty coin to sell in exchange for leverage, hadn’t he, too, cast away the burdens that had kept him anchored to the sea for three long years?  

He’s no longer the banished prince, searching for a ghost to bring him back home, and he’s not Lee, the refugee from the west, as real as the blue-fanged mask at the bottom of his bag. There is nothing left in the Avatar for the dishonored son. And so, with a heaving sigh,  Zuko rises and disappears into the night, returning back to the one thing he has for sure…

She’s left the window open for him, and he climbs back into their apartment. It’s hard to look at her, curled up with all the blankets all on her side of the bed, tiny in a futon made for two. Zuko tiptoes, careful to avoid whining floorboards.

“Go away,” she says, and it’s really no surprise that she’s still awake.

“Mai.”

“Leave, if you’re so keen on leaving. Leave.”

“I don’t want that, I want to stay with you. I was just angry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The silence returns to their apartment.

“Mai, I’m sorry.”

She sighs, and there’s a rustle of sheets as she throws some loose onto his side of the bed. Zuko slides in, consciously leaving enough space between them. “I’m so sorry, so, so sorry,” his words die unanswered in the night.

And then there’s another sigh from the opposite side of the bed, and she reaches her hand back to find his, and soon enough the abyss between them disappears, Mai tucked away in Zuko’s arms, her fingers stroking his knuckles lightly as he whispers promises into her ear, their hands wrapped round the seashell hanging at her heart.

She falls into sleep, and he follows after, one last promise on his breath: “I will return. I will always return.”  

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5 by Cupofdaydream

Some nights he comes back late, shadow crossing the unlocked window’s threshold and crossing to her side.

“It’s not the Avatar I’m searching for,” he assures her, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck.

“Then what is it? What are you doing out there all night?”

“It’s my uncle,” Zuko replies, words hesitant against her skin, “I’ve found him. He’s in the city.”

He’s seen him. Zuko catches him tucked away in the highest ring of the city, sleeping above his own tea house—just as the investor had said—called the Jasmine Dragon. Every night Iroh waves out the last of the stragglers long after official closing time, with a congenial smile and a hearty laugh, dismissing and thanking the remaining employees, sending them off with a cup of tea before tending to the cleaning himself. He sings as he works: the sweeping becomes a love ballad as he waltzes around the tables with his partner, her dress, gathering up fallen napkins and stray tea leaves; the dishes always the finale, the running water a waterfall as he laments the hero who sacrificed his life for victory and honor, lost to the tumultuous rapids below. And always, he ends the night with a cup of Jasmine tea before turning in.

This is what he’s always wanted—what he always talked about those three years on that forsaken ship. The dream is all here: the scrolls and art hanging from the walls, his favorite plants as necessary to the aesthetic of the room as the chairs and tables, the customers with their stories and laughter and their requests for just one more cup of that Chamomile, Iroh, just one more. All of it’s here but him. Zuko never sees any indication of his absence. Iroh never frowns, never cries—things run smoothly at work, the employees are more than capable and amiable. One of them is a boy not much younger than Zuko, a mop of black, unruly hair that sticks up every which way atop his head, and a slight limp to his right foot when he walks. Out of the entire establishment, Zuko concludes that this boy is the worst. Annoyingly attentive to each and every one of Iroh’s requests, the boy is much too eager, his enthusiasm appearing rather ungenuine, too try-hard.  One night, the boy stumbles on the rug with his bad leg, and tea spills everywhere, the spout of the teapot broken; however any satisfaction over the boy’s fumbling, and sniffling, and dampening eyes disappears when Iroh rushes over, attending to the boy—setting him down with a cup of steaming green tea, and tending to a bump on the boy’s head with a bag of ice—all before going back and cleaning up the spilled tea and ceramic.

All that remains of Zuko in the tea maker's life is a single portrait set on an altar, next to his late-cousin, Lu Ten, and incense burning day and night, Zuko spots his favorite rice candies sitting out. The scarred prince is truly dead and gone.

His uncle has moved on without him. And yet Zuko hasn’t. Perhaps it’s because he never said goodbye, never properly closed the door on that part of his life. How he longs to reach out, to appear before him—Uncle, I’m here, I’m alive, I’m so sorry for leaving you behind—and yet for what? To uproot the content life his uncle has built for himself? To shatter the dream like ceramic against the marble floor? And so, every night, after Zuko watches his uncle cook himself a cup of jasmine, he disappears back into the night, without ever saying a word.

“Shun and I finished putting together a crib today,” Zuko says one night, as they lie together in their post-coital bliss. Mai hums her acknowledgement as she traces patterns on his forearm with her ring finger. “I could make one for us one day,” he says, and her finger stops tracing. “And little blocks too—that spell out their name and everything,” and then he kisses her shoulder before whispering, “Let’s start a family.”

She’s quiet for a long time, before she shifts in his arms, turning so that she lies on top of him, and planting a deep kiss to his lips.  “One day, perhaps,” she finally says, “But not here. Not in this place.” And then she places her hand on his heart, the silver shell between. “We’ve still a long ways to go…”  

And Zuko remembers that this place is and always has been a stepping stone. Not a rock, not their cottage by the sea. And while here, they can be content, the true dream lies far off on some distant shore, and not trapped behind suffocating city walls.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

It’s not as if there’s much to pack—almost all of what they have sits in three bags by the door.

“Maybe my next assistant will actually know how to hold a hammer,” Shun says when Zuko tells him. “Ah well, best of luck to the both of you.”

Hana finds it harder to part with Mai—”Oh, dear, I don’t know what I’m going to do without you. People in this city just don’t know flowers like you do”—leaving her with a tear-stained robe and  a selection of seed bags.

Zuko stands before the open window, taking in the sight of the sleeping city one last time.

“Nervous?” Mai asks, her arms wrapping around him.

“What am I supposed to say? Where do I even begin?”

She holds him tighter.

“He thinks I’m dead. I just left him without saying goodbye. How could I ever atone for that?”

Mai slips something into his hand, and then leans in close: “Don’t do it again.”

The night seems colder tonight, less forgiving, everything about it harder to move through. Zuko, usually silent, a whisper on the wind, nearly has a run in with three guards as he crosses over to the Inner Ring. His heart beats loud enough to wake the entire city, and sweat drips from his brow and down his neck like rivulets of tears. It’s hard to breathe. If he were to turn around, if he were to leave this city without ever saying a word, nothing would change; they’d simply continue down their current paths, two celestial objects just passing one another before they shoot away, aimlessly, without bound, without end, into interminable space. Yet how lonely it would be—to part without ever meeting. Zuko needs the ricochet. He needs this.

And so Zuko raps his knuckles on the door of the tea house, once, and then again, and then again, until he hears his uncle’s footsteps from within.

“I, too, on occasion find myself craving tea well into the hours of dawn, but I can assure you I brew a much better pot in the morning after I have been well rested,” Iroh says with a yawn as he opens the door.  

Zuko shakes—perhaps it’s from the cold—and his eyes cannot seem to move from his own feet, paralyzed in place, his knees and feet turned in, and it’s like he’s a child again. It’s like that time all those years ago when Zuko had stood in front of Iroh’s closed bedroom door after his return from the failed Siege of Ba Sing Se. He’d stood on tiptoe, and tapped on the door, trying to piece together something, anything, to say—Welcome home, Uncle. Please don’t cry, please don’t cry. I miss Lu Ten, too, Uncle—and yet when the door opened, Iroh scooped Zuko up into his arms, holding him close, and wiping away his nephew’s tears on the sleeve of his robe.

And so here they stand once more, on opposite sides of the threshold, like all those years ago, and then, like the waves slowly churning and then crashing upon the shore, they fall together. This time, both of their shoulders are wet from tears, and both men sob openly, two great dams bursting open after being held at breaking point for far too long. Yet this time, Zuko finds no relief with his uncle’s arms around him. Only guilt.

“After the explosion…we never found a body. I always hoped, but…”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I should’ve gone and found you. I should’ve let you know I was all right. I know I’ve hurt you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Zuko, my nephew, you came back, you came back. I thought I’d lost both of you, but you’re alive.”

Iroh pulls pulls him in, and takes him upstairs to the living quarters, where Iroh insists on setting his nephew up with a cup of tea and a handkerchief. Eyes drawn to the surface of his beverage, intensely aware of the bag at his feet and its content, Zuko accounts how he’d escaped the explosion just in time, when he’d decided to move on his journey alone, how he’d moved from town to town in a mask of blue, Omashu. Mai. He’s weighted with shame when he tells his uncle how he stole, looted, held the innocent at knifepoint; his entire face grows warm, the heat starting at his neck and spreading to the tips as his ears as he recounts sneaking into palace walls in the dead of night, sleeping in a real bed for the first time in years, leaving his uncle to infer the rest—which the old man does, laughing deeply, and eyeing his nephew with a knowing eye before encouraging him to go on. He talks of life in Ba Sing Se, Shun and his carpentry business, Hana and her flowers, the apartment he and Mai share, the crumpled up missing bison poster at the bottom of the dumpster, the shells that hang around their necks.  Zuko tells his uncle about the promise—the cottage that sits at the edge of the sea with its rice-papered doors and walls that will need repairing, and red trim that will need repainting, the cherry blossom canopied boardwalk that will always, always bloom, and the view that looks out onto an empty shore filled only with the crash of the waves, and the cry of gulls, tiny footprints that dot the sand around castles left to crumble in the night.  

Then comes the hard part. Tears spring and fall once more as Zuko tells Iroh that they leave tomorrow. That he’s here to say goodbye and not hello. And when Iroh embraces him, Zuko feels like the boy rapping at his uncle’s bedroom door once more.

“All I have ever wanted was for you to find happiness. And if that happiness lies on a far-off shore, do not let me be the anchor that keeps you tethered to the sea. Zuko, no matter how many lands, or oceans, no matter how many worlds keep us apart, I will always love you,” Iroh says. “I will always love you. True love is not like the moon. It does not wane—it never disappears from our sight entirely. Love is the energy flowing through this earth, ever constant, coursing like a river without bound, ceaseless on its path. No matter where you are, I will always love you.”

“I’ll always love you, too, Uncle,” Zuko sniffles into his uncle’s sleeve. “Thank you. For everything.” Zuko holds tight, trying to forget that he’ll eventually have to let go…

Iroh notices it first: the one o’clock chorus of birds outside.

“You should probably head back. You have to leave early tomorrow,” Iroh says, handing Zuko his knapsack. Iroh wipes his eyes as they walk down the stairs in silence.

At the threshold, Zuko turns back to his uncle, sentiments unnamed tugging at his heart. He can’t bring himself to say it. And Iroh understands.

“This isn’t goodbye, Zuko. This is until we meet again,” he says with a sad smile.

“Then goodnight, Uncle,” Zuko says. He hugs his uncle before placing two cloth-wrapped objects into his hands before heading out into the darkened streets. And then he turns back one last time: “I promise, I will return. I will always return.”

Iroh stands in the doorway long after his nephew’s faint silhouette flits away across the city from rooftop to rooftop, the lines of his face truly content, a smile on his face as he lets a light breeze ruffle his robes, lets his ears fill with the sound of the night, a blue-fanged mask and a crimson knife in his hands.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

“Ready?” Mai asks, holding out her hand.

Shun and Hana watch on from a distant, Hana waving cheerfully with one hand, while the other clutches a handkerchief. Shun rubs at something in his eyes. Zuko recalls last night and can’t help but wonder if his uncle is looking out his tea house window right at this moment, a silent, reassuring presence a wall away, and though he carries two bags on his back, a burden no longer sits on his shoulders.

He reaches back, fingers intertwining with hers in their familiar way. “Ready,” Zuko says. And they leave their rickety apartment behind.

It seems as if the city welcomes their departure, the bustling crowd, usually incredibly difficult to maneuver through, parts like water at their feet, and the lines for the rail cars heading outwards are short. They fly backwards through the vastness of Ba Sing Se, through the residential rings, and then the agricultural.    

As their feet touch soil outside the great walls for the first time in what seems like a lifetime, Zuko looks to Mai, and Mai looks to Zuko, seashells hanging at their hearts. And together, hand in hand, they set out towards their cottage by the sea.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Story turns very AU after Zuko's banishment
> 
> This fic has been posted to fanfiction.net as well under my collaboration partner's handle, Kasaihanaa (https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4119208/Kasaihanaa) who is an incredibly talented artist and writer, whom I am so lucky to call my friend.
> 
> We've split up the chapters which will be labeled with the author at the beginning of each.
> 
> Chapter 6 by Kasaihanaa

  
  


The sixth arrow grazes him, cutting into flesh as he bleeds out the memories of that last sunrise. How he promised, how she breathed her agreement back in return and yet they never met beyond Omashu’s walls. He wonders if she waited, did she walk out through the gates, escape through a passage and wait as the winds of the canyon blew him further and further away.

 

Waiting, always leaving her waiting.

 

Was she angry? Infuriated knowing she was left alone yet again. And for what? Selfish, selfish ambition, clouded with hatred of a troubled past. He is left here, among the forest leaves covered in arrows that now look like quils embedded in his skin, alone, he forges their memories.

 

He goes back to how the new beginning went. His ventures from the river bank plucking splinters from his skin, nursing gashes from the metal.

 

Cutting ties was the easiest part, and freedom came from the pearl dagger grazing his scalp, and then watching as the hair swept away with the current. He was dead---some of him, but even then his hands were still his hands and his scar was his scar and those old wounds would not let him die in that explosion. They remain etched in all of their memories, the boy who fell victim to his failurues, just as they’d hoped. But would they mourn? Or would they rejoice, or would it be a mix of wails and cheers as an empty casket is lit aflame? Dwelling has gotten him nowhere and Zuko knows it doesn’t matter in the end.

 

From the bank he wanders until he finds a village, where a girl offers him treatment. The ointments burn, and the leaves she adds underneath the bandages don’t soothe well enough.

 

“We get injured travelers like this all  the time.” She says, her hands reaching for a needle and thread, carefully threading it through his skin, “They stray from the front lines, or they’re coming home because they can’t go on.”

 

“It’s a war, what do you expect?” His muscles tense as he watches her sew through the wounds, “You’re patching up the lucky ones.”

 

“I don’t think anyone’s hurt more or less in this situation.”

 

“Why’s that?”

 

“Fighting or not, everyone is suffering.”

 

Once she’s finished up, he tries to repay her by working the small field. There isn’t much, and it’s easy work--pluck the herbs, bring them to the clinic, where she grinds them down and adds them into ointments or keeps them ready to use in storage jars.

 

The village is quiet like that, routine, and tranquil despite the raging war cries that go on just a few miles from their borders. The only disturbance is the muffled whispers of those who wander in and out, some occupying the silence longer than others. For a while, he wonders if Mai would have liked it here, if they could have traveled together to a place like this. The thought is too distant, too far too take back, and he figures he won’t ever get the chance to find out.

 

 

* * *

 

Sunrise, Mai thinks. But by sunset she’s alone on the terrace. She remembers the draft of the canyon just beyond the walls, looking down and trying to find just how deep it goes. And she waited---waited for him and for things to change, and they did. They changed like rolling tides, beautiful as they rose, until they crashed, leaving her beached on the same rocky shore from which she came. Alone again, she thinks---abandoned with his promises.

 

Zuko’s gone again, and this time, she won’t think to mourn. No petals will be thrown into the canyon, not a single wish for his return.

 

“It’s a bit chilly tonight, hm?”

 

Mai sighs, inhaling and letting her grip on the stone railing lessen. Instinct from practice causes her to adjust her expression, turning to her mother without a frown or a smile, not a sliver of emotion hanging from her tongue.  “It’s been chilly every night in this dreadful place.”

 

“All the more reason for you to adjust.” The other woman smiles, carefully stepping forward to run her ‘inspections,’ adjusting her daughter’s posture and tilting Mai’s chin upward, further neglecting to notice the subtle tremble in her bottom lip. “If you only tried, you may like it here. You have everything you could ask for. Just like royalty.”

 

“Because royalty is exactly what i’ve always wanted. Right, mother?”

 

The older sighs, tucking her hands into her robes, her expression dropping slowly as Mai’s chin descends.

 

“Forget it. Get out.” Mai sighs, and knows she’s right. It is colder.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Zuko stays three days, sleeping in the hay stack in the barn.

 

“I never got your name.” The girl says on the last day, stacking a few bento and tying them up so they’ll make it through the ride.

 

Zuko gives a nod of thanks, carefully setting the food into a bag. “Uh, Li. Yours?”

 

“Song.”

 

"Song." He repeats quietly giving her a nod. "Thank you, for the help, I mean."

 

As he rides off he tries only to think of Song. The few nights exchanging stories, or rather, the made up ones on his end, account of things that weren’t real, at least not for him. He remembers her showing him the burn on her legs, how the tendrils of the injury curled up and down her skin. It’s one of many things that remind him that he’s not the only one hurting in this. Not the only one to wish things were different and, not the only one to cause pain.

 

The desert pushes him more. A punishment, he thinks, as he runs low on water and his throat burns more and more the further he goes.

 

In the next town the family Zuko stays with sings quiet war songs after dinner. The little boy named Lee sings along in broken tune as his father strums the pipa. There’s something peaceful about the way they hum in unison, how the woman’s eyes flutter closed as her husband plucks the strings.

 

Earlier when they offered a place to rest to his head, they told him how their older son went to war. How they’re proud of him. And for a moment Zuko thinks if they would change their songs for him, for the banished prince, had they known.

 

“So, where do you come from?” Lee asks, and Zuko’s head jerks upward hardly realizing the strumming had stopped.

 

“Like I said, far away.”

 

“Did you run from Omashu or somethin’?” Lee says, his head tilting to the side.

 

“Something like that..” Zuko sighs, brushing a few bits of straw off his pants.

 

“It’s getting better. Dad says after the Fire Nation took over, the people waited, then they took the city back! Isn’t that cool?”

 

He looks up then, brow furrowed, “What do you mean--took it back?”

 

* * *

 

 

For months she spends her days tracing her knife marks in the tables. scratching out what she can and carving away at anything else. Pining, always pining, and it infuriates her.

 

During the afternoon she watches some fo the Earth Kingdom citizens bury one of their children, caught for stealing from the military and shown no mercy. She can’t help but wonder if when they got the news back home. did they do the same for Zuko? Did they light the pyre, sprinkle flowers over his grave, did they even weep? Would they do so if it was her?

 

She draws interest in the mother’s cries, how her broken sobs seem to shatter her frame, all the while she’s never seen her own mother budge over anything, not unless it ruined her repuations or her father’s.

 

Her thoughts are discarded as the guards step in, disbanding the memorial and prying the woman from the makeshift grave. She screams and mouths curses, her eyes glossy and sullen as she’s pulled away.

 

That’s all she can remember later, the screaming, the curses and the unchanged expressions from the guards as they tugged her off.

 

When Mai passes by later, she sets a flower on the grave stones.

 

By nightfall she feels numb. Again, emotions are suppressed and she can hardly bring herself to sit at her bedroom table. All she can see are her hands, the subtle rise of her viens and shift of her knuckles as they reach up her sleeves to extract blades.

 

From sleeve to metal, and still she can hardly feel the wind gusts of wind that blow through the terrace. Once she runs out the wind carries her to the door, devoid of thought of sense, just trying to be free of it--of him.

 

She pushes back so much that she can’t even make out the sounds of the clatter down the hall, hardly take in the rest of her own family’s screams. What she does make out is muffled, and it reminds her of nothing but the woman. The woman who never got to sprinkle flowers over her child’s grave, the child taken from what she was trying so very hard to be numb from.

 

The unfeeling ends when the intruders find her. From her wounds she can feel everything she’d been hiding, the wind from the empty canyon that morning, the sound of his voice when he said ‘sunrise,’ and every silent ‘I love you., gushing out of her chest and onto the floor.  

 

And for a moment she thinks, as her frame begins to feel lighter, and all of the emotions pouring out of begin to seep into the tile, this must be what it feels like to be free, and for the first and last time she breathes in, knowing this is  just what sunrise should feel like.

 

 

* * *

When he hears of the coup he can’t speak of her. As they sing their war songs the next night, he can only think of funeral hymns and how she will not get one. After a while they speak of their son again, how he’s fighting on the front lines of the  same war. They continue to speak proudly of him, stating his accomplishments in honorary rhetoric, while Zuko holds back from redescribing her ragged death to explain what he really was.

 

He wants to tell them how he knows her. He wants to speak of her soft collarbones and the calm monotone that was her voice. But it’s worth nothing. Swirling sentences around what he imagines is her frame will not create her a hymn.

 

By morning he leaves, giving the boy with his pearl dagger, forgetting the meaning as he rides off until he finds the trees. If nothing else, he has to find it for her, find the cottage and the boardwalk with the blossoms, the paper doors and gold plated rooftops. Everything he owed her.

 

Leaning against the bark an odd feeling takes him, one that feels like a lack of solitude which he covers up by looking for water and straining out what he can from a small stream in a makeshift sieve. Drinking from the pouch, he makes his way back to a wooded road, mistaking the patter of steps against wood for his own.

 

When the first arrow hits the pain shoots up his shoulder blades and down his back, triggering his instinct to run. His right arm won’t move but he feels the blood trickl down and finally pool in his palm spreading as it drips from his fingertips and onto the leaves, leaving a trail of red paint for them to follow.

 

Moments after the second comes, digging into his side and causing him to topple, scrambling for balance along the thick layer of leaves. And then the third that knocks the wind out of him, back to his halcyon days and the beach, back to his father and sister and the life he knew. But when he wakes, they’re gone, replaced by blood coughed up in the palm of his hand and for a moment he thinks to call out for his uncle.

 

The fourth whizzes past his head, but is followed by the fifth that obliterates his lungs. As the blood level rises and his throat burns he begins to watch his vision blur, sweeping back into his dreams. Zuko dreams of her living, breathing, singing, until the pain sets in and he dreams of the rebel’s advances. As his lungs fill, he dreams of her screams, and how he destroys everything he touches. How funeral pyres could raise up in every life he’s encountered. How Song won’t be able to save the injured travelers if she can’t save herself, how Lee, just a boy---won’t give up fighting even when everything is lost until finally he loses himself.

 

But, mostly, he dreams of he could’ve saved her. Had he met her in the canyon and not left her with nothing but wind, could he have changed how it ends? But this death, and this life is not enough to harvest his own atonement.

 

So when Zhao steps out from the shadows, speaking of the Prince Zuko who once was and never will be again, leaving him to the fade out, until he wakes on shore.

 

Water laps at his cheeks, causing him to flutter his eyes open and watch the scene come into focus. There’s a shell around his neck but this time it feels weightless, dangling  as he pushes himself up.

 

For hours he wanders, watching the sun graze the horizon as he walks the edge of the sea. It’s here, he knows, as soon as his feet hit the wood paneled boardwalk and become covered in petals, he sees their cottage, the gold trimmed roof tops, and the rice paper doors. Zuko knows, as soon as he hears, that this death is not a punishment, but it is his chance to atone, and finally---finally he’s finished leaving her waiting and Mai’s voice welcomes him home.

**\--FIN--**

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's the last of it! Thank you so much for taking the time to read our work. We truly appreciate all the support we've received.


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